


Dear Sherlock

by Kamie007



Series: Fluffy BBC Sherlock Oneshots [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry Sherlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cruel Mycroft, Depressed John, Fainting John, Letters to Sherlock, M/M, Mary's Just a Friend, Post-Reichenbach, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamie007/pseuds/Kamie007
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John takes to writing him letters and leaving them at his grave. Every time he checks, the letters disappear. Who's taking the letters? Who's reading them? Will John make it until Sherlock's return from the dead?





	Dear Sherlock

_ Dear Sherlock, _

_ It's been two months since you...left. I miss you, more than I ever thought I could. Work is awful. I hate having to go out and pretend that my world hasn't been shattered. I've been sleeping less, having more nightmares. I haven't been incredibly hungry lately, either. I don't really know what to do anymore when I'm not at work. I've helped Greg with a few cases, but it just isn't the same without you. My therapist is actually who suggested I write this, said it would help me feel better. So far, it's just made me think of you more, which hurts like hell. I don't know what's wrong with me. Thinking of you makes me want to die, but I can't bare the thought of trying to forget you. Since no one is actually going to read these, I suppose there's no harm in admitting things I don't want to tell anyone else. Here goes nothing: I've been considering suicide. The only thing that keeps me alive is the idea that me killing myself would probably kill poor Mrs. Hudson, and I couldn't do that to her. I've never really been good at being selfish, I guess. But I really hate it when other people call you that, because you weren't being selfish. You didn't commit suicide, you were murdered. Moriarty might as well have pushed you off that ledge. I know that now.  _

_ I'm so sorry for yelling at you. I hate myself every time I think about how the last conversation we had in person ended in me calling you heartless, and accusing you of not caring about Mrs. Hudson. I have to go now, before I have another breakdown.  _

_ Love, _

_ John _

_ Dear Sherlock, _

_ It's been five months of hell since you left. I haven't been able to write any more because I about had a mental breakdown the last time I wrote. I cried for two hours, then started hallucinating. But, I had to risk another breakdown because I just had to tell you something that I've discovered recently. Really, I should have known all along, but I was blind and stupid, and, as you so love, sorry loved, to remind me, an idiot, so I'm only just now getting this. I love you. Not as a friend, not as a roommate, not as a brother, but true and deep love. And I never got to tell you. I was always so quick to say that I wasn't gay because I was starting to really doubt myself, but now I know. I know because the grief is tearing me apart piece by piece, like the chunks of flesh I pull at with my razor on the tops of my thighs when I get bored and I'm alone. Because even when I'm alone, I can't get you out of my mind. I haven't told anyone else about this...discovery. I don't want anyone to pity me more than they already do. Mrs. Hudson and Molly are the worst. I've been thinking about leaving Baker Street, but I have no money for rent anywhere else, and, honestly, the only thing that helps me sleep at night is to curl up either in your bed or your chair, that is when I try to sleep. I'm still working at the hospital and I think it might be keeping me sane. Or as sane as I can be right now. I guess at any rate it's keeping me alive. As you can probably tell with this letter, I find it hard to stay completely focused. I do my best to fight the urge for my mind to wander while I'm at work, which makes it so much harder to focus when I get back to the flat. I feel like a terrible person. Mrs. Hudson comes up nearly every day and tries to get me to talk about you, but every day is the same: I sit in my chair, nodding mindlessly as my thoughts float away, leaving me in a haze, not hearing a thing the poor woman says to me. Yet still she comes. I guess it's one way for her to cope. I guess I still haven't found mine. Sherlock, please, grant me my wish that I spoke to your gravestone...don't be dead. I don't care how, and I'm starting to not care when, just please, finish up whatever you're doing out there and come back to me. I promise I'll wait for you. I'm in love with you, and only you. I'm not sure how much longer I can live without you, Sherlock, so please hurry.  _

_ With love, always, _

_ John _

_ Dear Sherlock, _

_ It's been exactly one year since you shattered my world, and even though you're not here, I still feel like I fall in love with you more every day. Maybe because I feel like joining you more and more every day, if you're even dead. I haven't seen much of Mycroft, but I didn't really expect to see him a lot. But, every so often, Mrs. Hudson refuses to take the rent, saying that month's had already been paid, even if I had no recollection of giving her the money, so I figure it must be him, trying to at least try and help out the man his brother left behind. Molly's doing a lot better than I thought she would have, seeing as she's had an obvious crush on you since before I even knew you. I still haven't told anyone else that I am in love with you. It's not that I'm afraid to tell people, I just don't want to trigger a relapse into the dark depression of what I refer to as the early days, back when I cut myself nearly every night. In case you were wondering, I've mostly stopped that now, though I still do it every time I have the nightmare, which is really just a repeat of my memories of that day. I always wake up miserable, and so it takes away from the emotional pain of the dream to cause physical pain. Since I am a doctor, I do realize that there are faults in that logic, but it's helped me stay alive, so I guess you should thank the logic. I really hope you're not dead. But I'm getting tired of waiting, Sherlock. Please come back, and soon. I need you. I love you. I miss you more than you could ever imagine.  _

_ With love, impatiently, _

_ John _

_ Dear Sherlock, _

_ It's been a year and six months now. For the record, I still love you, and I still miss you, and I still need you to not be dead. I don't care if you come in the middle of the night and drag me out of bed, or surprise me at work, I just want you back. In other news, by some miracle, I'm still employed at the hospital, and I've actually made a friend there. Her name is Mary Morstan. Don't get jealous, I'm not interested in her at all, but she's someone I can talk to and have a no pressures dinner with. She's the only friend I have who doesn't constantly want me to talk about you, so I don't volunteer. It still hurts like someone is forcing a dagger through my heart when I say your name, or think about you for more than five seconds. Once, when Mrs. Hudson came up for tea, I was doing my usual not listening routine, but then something she said slapped me harshly out of my haze, and shocked me so bad I actually passed out from the pain her words caused in my heart (the metaphorical one, not the physical, you literalist). She had said "How could Sherlock have been so cruel, heartless, shallow, and selfish to think that taking his life would be best." When I woke up, I nearly passed out again, that time from anger. I yelled a lot more loudly than I should have, and said some choice words I hadn't used since high school, but I felt a little better after letting all of those emotions finally escape. She of course was terrified, and when she got past the swear words and heard what I was actually saying, she immediately started to cry out of remorse, which for some reason made me even more sad than before, so I just patted her arm and told her to go back to her flat and have a good nap, or watch some crap telly. Anyways, the point of this letter was to show you, if you are the one taking these from your graveside, that my love for you is real, and that I still mean it, even after all this time. I don't care if it's another whole year, just please, Sherlock, come back.  _

_ With all my love, _

_ John _

_ Dear Sherlock, _

_ Today, my love, is the second anniversary of the day my life was shattered. The day you fell from St. Bart's. I still can't understand why you did it. I guess, if I can only get an answer to one question, that would be it. Why? I mean, I know that Moriarty had to have had something to do with your choice, but I want to know for sure what that bastard did to force you to die. If he weren't dead, I'd probably kill him myself.  _

_ In better news, the story of 'Richard Brooke' finally broke down. The news stations and all the media is going crazy over the fact that Moriarty was real, and so were you. They're all saying the same thing: "Sherlock Holmes, the late consulting detective, was not a fraud, but was framed by evil mastermind, Jim Moriarty. Unfortunately, this revelation comes two years too late for the suicidal detective, who took his own life by jumping from the top of the Saint Bortholomew Hospital two years ago today."  _

_ Anderson and Donovan both quit after they figured out that Moriarty was actually real, and that they helped Moriarty's plan to get rid of you and to destroy your reputation. Donovan has been pretty normal, from what Greg's told me, but Anderson has apparently gone crazy with the guilt. He apparently started a fan club about how you faked your death. On the outside, I would like to scoff at the ridiculousness of you surviving that fall, but some parts of me still hold out hope that you are still alive, and that you are going to return to 221B Baker Street, and that all along, you're the one who takes my letters from your grave, and not the custodian of the grounds.  _

_ Since tonight is what Mary calls one of my "danger nights" she's taking me out to a fancy restaurant to keep my mind off of you. I doubt it'll work, but I guess it'll be worth a try. I can't get the idea of you barging in there, surprising me with a sudden appearance, out of my head, and so I find myself trying to figure out how I would react, were it to actually happen. I've narrowed it down to two possibilities: possibility number one, I'll faint on the spot at least once; possibility number two, I'll kiss you on the spot, no matter where or when you show up. I know what you're probably thinking: how is there not an option where I punch or hit you? The answer is I'm not angry with you for leaving me for so long. I'm heartbroken, but obviously you had something important to take care of, and it's safer for the both of us if you worked alone.  _

_ I know it sounds kind of silly, but I just can't let go of the hope that you're still alive. I think the moment I start believing with my whole heart that you're dead will be the day that I die, whether that's fifty years from now or fifty minutes from now, as long as I've got the hope that you'll come back to me, I can keep living.  _

_ With undying love, _

_ John _

_ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ _

"You mean to tell me you've been keeping these letters from me for two years? Two years, Mycroft, five letters, letters giving extremely important and  _ sensitive  _ information, and you hid them from me! How could you?"

"Sherlock, relax! Think about it, giving you these letters would have only distracted you from your mission! If I had given you the letters as I found them at your "grave," you would have insisted upon returning to Baker Street prematurely, leaving you, John, Mrs. Hudson, and the detective inspector in grave danger!"

"YES, BUT LEAVING JOHN ALONE OBVIOUSLY PUT HIM IN GRAVE DANGER FROM HIMSELF!"

"Sherlock, I read the letters, all five of them, and I assure you John Watson was on constant suicide watch! It was very discreet, and he never knew about it, but please believe me when I say that I was not going to let him die! Especially not by his own hand. I kept him protected, I watched over him, and I've kept these letters safe so that I could give them to you after you finished the mission, and now, I'm allowing you to return to Baker Street to face John Watson! Just remember one thing, brother dear: sentiment is a disadvantage found on the losing side."

"If caring is losing, Mycroft, then maybe I'm tired of winning. Have you ever considered that? No? I didn't think so. Good day, brother mine."

With a swoosh of his coat and a slam of the door, Sherlock strode out of Mycroft's office, determined to find John and confess to the same "defect" John had towards him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"John, I'm really glad you let me take you out tonight. I know it's obviously not a date, but it's nice to get out once in awhile and treat yourself to a nice night out, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess. But why did it have to be this place? It's much too fancy and expensive! Couldn't we have just got taken out and watched crap telly? I'm not exactly in the mood to even act like I want to be around people tonight."

"John, I understand that this is the second anniversary of losing the best friend you had, but you have to move on with your life at some point! Sherlock Holmes is dead, and nothing you say or do can change that! You have to accept that! If you don't accept that, living with false hope will kill you!" Mary exclaimed in exahsperation.

"That's where you're wrong, Mary! You don't understand this at all! You have no idea what I'm going through! No one does! He wasn't my best friend, he was the love of my life! And he didn't kill himself, he was murdered! And if I give up the hope that he faked his death, I will lose the will to live, and I'll be the next body they find underneath St. Bart's!" John hissed, keeping his voice low but intense, trying to keep the conversation private. Mary's eyes went wide and filled with tears. 

"You loved him?"

"Yes. More than anything in this world. And I never got the chance to tell him that." 

Just then, a tall waiter with glasses and a strange little mustache came to the table with a wine list. When he spoke, his voice carried a faint French accent that John would have recognized as fake, had he been paying attention. 

"May I interest you in a bottle of wine?"

John kept his eyes on the table, struggling to keep his emotions in check and the tears from spilling from his eyes, as was Mary. The waiter kept pushing. 

"If I may, I would suggest this one. It's a robust red, with a  _ familiar  _ kind of tang." 

At that point, Mary started getting annoyed with the man. 

"Sure, that's fine, can't you see we're in the middle of something? He lost his best friend, and I'm trying to help him past the grief, so if you could give us some peace, that would be great."

"Odd, I was sure peace is what I was bringing. You see, when you look around, you never know when you might be staring into the face of an old friend." The waiter let's his fake French accent slip away throughout his speech. As he revealed his real voice, John turned to look at him, and found himself staring into the gorgeous sea green eyes of none other than Sherlock Holmes, the man he had just been crying over. John stood quickly, but before he could say anything, he lost consciousness, as he had predicted in his last letter. Sherlock caught him with a smile on his face, chuckling at John's accuracy. 

"How the hell could you be laughing! A customer just fainted into your arms, and you're laughing?! What would your manager say to that?"

Sherlock's eyes fixed on her, roamed all over her face, then he gave her another tight lipped smile before giving her the shock of a lifetime. 

"You must be Mary Morstan. I hate to tell you, but I don't actually work here. Now, I want you to do exactly what I say and please don't ask questions."

"What are you going on about? And you can't just tell me to not have questions, it doesn't work like that!"

"I didn't say to not have questions, I just told you not to verbalize them! And we are getting John back to Baker Street, now hold his other arm and help me get him to a cab before he wakes up."

Mary did as she was told, and helped Sherlock drag John through the restaurant, giving the explanation that John had drank a little too much to all of the questioning stares they got. Once they were out of the restaurant, Sherlock called them a cab. Almost immediately, one pulled over for him. Mary started to thank him for his help, thinking he would just go back inside, but then noticed he got into the cab with her, pulling John over to him, causing her suspicions to rise. Her suspicion was fueled even further when he gave the cabbie the correct address. 

"Who the hell are you?"

Sherlock turned to her, his upper lip red from rubbing off the fake mustache, and smirked. 

"I believe my name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you've heard of me."

Mary's face went slack with disbelief. 

"Before you say it, I'm obviously not dead. It's a very long, very private story." 

"Can I have one question? Do you love him?"

Mary's question startled Sherlock. 

"He told you?"

"Just now, but yes. I'm guessing it was in one of his letters?"

"Yes. The second one, in fact."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Do you love him?" Mary said, exasperated. 

"Of course I do. How could I not?" Sherlock's voice turned tender, and he carefully ran his fingers over John's hair. The two stayed in silence until the cab pulled to a stop in front of 221B Baker Street, then the silence was broken only by grunts and groans from trying to gently get the still unconscious John out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket, hoping Mrs. Hudson was already fast asleep so he wouldn't have to deal with her screaming. Luckily, he and Mary were able to get John up the stairs and into 221B without hearing any stirring from their landlady's flat. They took John inside and laid him on the couch then took a step back. 

"I imagine you'll want to be alone with him when he wakes up, so I guess I'll be going home. My number's in John's phone, if you need to call me. It was a pleasure to meet you, and I'm honestly very glad you're not dead. Just, be careful with him, will you?"

"Thank you, and of course. I would never hurt John intentionally, and I will never leave him again. I promise. Good night, Mary." 

Mary nodded then walked back down the stairs and out of the door. Back upstairs, Sherlock placed a blanket over John, then went to make tea, knowing John would need a cuppa when he finally woke up. The kettle had just started boiling when he heard groans from the sitting room. 

"Mary, is that you? What happened? I can't remember anything past this crazy dream I just had! Did I oversleep our dinner outing? Mary?" John walked into the kitchen and froze, realizing that the person in front of him was certainly not Mary Morstan. Sherlock turned to face him, discreetly preparing himself to race forward and catch John if he fainted again. 

"Hello, John. You didn't sleep through dinner. What you remember wasn't a dream. You fainted in the restaurant, just as you said you would in your letter. Perhaps you should sit down before you do it again. I may not be able to catch you this time."

John hesitantly walked forward, his face filled with the fear that this was just a horrible hallucination brought on by the trauma of re-visiting Sherlock's grave early that morning. He reached out a wavering hand towards Sherlock's face. Sherlock, not fully believing John's words when he wrote that he wasn't angry, prepared himself to be slapped, but was pleasantly surprised that the touch he expected to sting was instead soft and comforting. 

"Sherlock? Is it really you? Are you really here, alive? Or is this another dream?" 

Sherlock smiled softly. 

"Did you know that you can't actually do things you have never experienced in your dreams? So, say, if you've never actually kissed someone in real life, it is completely impossible for your unconscious mind to create that image while you sleep." 

"No, I didn't know that. Why is it relevant?"

Sherlock took John's face between his hands and pressed his lips carefully against John's. When they parted, Sherlock looked John in the eye and said, "You're not dreaming, John." 

John's mind then caught up to his actions, and he staggered back, nearly sitting on the kitchen table to steady himself. His confusion multiplied when he saw the look of hurt and fear that crossed Sherlock's handsome features when he ran. 

"John, I read your letters, all five of them, this morning. Mycroft had been picking them up, well, one of his men had, and he had been keeping them from me, but I finished my mission, so he decided that it was okay for me to read them today. To answer your one question, Moriarty had three gunmen stationed across London: one trained on Mrs. Hudson, one trained on Lestrade, and one trained on you. If they did not see me fall from that rooftop, three triggers would have been pulled, and my world would have shattered permanently. I'm sorry I had to make you think I was dead, but it was for your protection. If you knew I was alive, you would have been in grave danger. And to answer the question you wanted to ask, but never had the guts to write: I love you too. I always have." 

John blinked rapidly with the sudden influx of information, and when his mind finished processing it all, he broke out in a huge smile before running back to Sherlock, throwing his arms around his neck, and kissing him harder than he'd ever kissed anyone before. 

"Thank you for granting my one wish." John whispered against Sherlock's lips before taking them in his own as if their connection were the only thing keeping Sherlock there with him. They were interrupted that time by the opening of the door, along with the voice of their landlady. 

"John, are you awake, dear? I knew I heard Mary leave, so I was thinking you might like a late night cup of tea and some company, if you'd like to get dressed, I'll be waiting on the sofa."

John poked his head out of the kitchen. 

"Um, well, Mary did leave, Mrs. Hudson, but I'm not, um, well, I'm not alone up here." 

"What do you mean? I only heard two sets of footsteps going up on the stairs, and one going back down!"

"Well, that's because I wasn't, uh, walking. I had, um, two people carrying me up the stairs. One was Mary, and one was a, um, special friend, I guess you could say. One that we haven't seen in a while, and his appearance was such a shock, I literally fainted on the spot there at the restaurant." 

"What kind of friend are we talking about, John? I wasn't aware you had moved on from Sherlock!"

"That's the thing, Mrs. Hudson, I haven't moved on. What I'm trying to say is, the second person who carried me up the stairs, and who made me faint in the first place, was Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson, he's not dead." 

"Oh, John! Not again! You've been doing so well! Sherlock is - OH MY!!! Am I hallucinating too?" 

"No, Mrs. Hudson, no one is hallucinating. I faked my death in order to prevent yours, John's, and Lestrade's." 

"Oh, that's wonderful, dear. I think I'm going to go to bed now. Good night, boys." Mrs. Hudson said dreamily, obviously in a state of shock.

"Do you think she'll make it to bed alright?" John asked Sherlock worriedly. 

"Of course. I'm sure she'll be fine. Now, would you like to have a cup of tea, or go straight to bed?"

"Well," John said abashed, "if you'll be in the bed beside me, I'd rather go to bed. I think we could both use a good night's rest." 

Sherlock laughed before pulling John in for another quick kiss, then lead him to his room and closed the door for the night, making sure to lock it to prevent Mrs. Hudson from getting a larger surprise than her old heart could take.

  
  



End file.
